


Just a Desk

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Brat Tamer [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Bottom Connor, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Desk Sex, Dom Hank Anderson, Dom/sub, Graduate School, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Secret Relationship, Top Hank Anderson, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 02:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: This is supremely self-indulgent. There are a lot of D/s themes, scenes, etc. It started as a Twitter thread, but I received numerous requests to put it on AO3 since it's now over 30K words. I'm posting each part as a series since there will be tags specific to the various scenes that occur. Pay attention to the tags. This first part has odd pacing since it was written for Twitter, but later parts I started writing in word documents to improve flow.Part 1





	Just a Desk

It's just a desk. It really shouldn't make Connor sweat this much, but he knows what he's done on it. The man who frequently took him apart at the seams, his professor, sits behind it while calmly speaking to his mother.

Connor had told her not to come. It was a new-age thing, inviting students' parents to come discuss their grades. The helicopter parents ate it up and Connor had groaned when his mother insisted on "Meeting the fine educators" of his school.

"I'm a graduate student, mother. Twenty-four, remember? Really, this is unnecessary," he began what he knew to be a doomed argument.

Amanda had examined her nails rather than give her whining son additional attention, "I'm your mother, Connor. I will always have a vested interest in your affairs. Get used to it." And that had been that.

Niles had warned him to expect their mother's nosiness—his twin had started work on his advanced degree while Connor had taken a gap year to travel. He realized quickly that life is much less enjoyable without an income in addition to looming student loans demanding repayment. He decided to accept a robotics scholarship that had been gathering dust. He’d earn a small stipend and he could keep his loans in check.

He'd always had an affinity for high-tech gadgetry and the industry was certainly booming. Niles had gone into some bizarre branch of medicine that Connor didn't try too hard to understand. More often than not, it sounded like he was training to be a mad scientist.

Connor had spent most of university dreading the graduate program. He'd have to actually create something there rather than just proving he could regurgitate a textbook. The task was daunting enough without the cantankerous, lone professor managing the program. He wasn't known for his kindness or patience.

Few people seeking an advanced degree made it this far. Most of them branched off to related programs with less irascible professors heading them. He'd set foot in Professor Anderson's classroom more than a little terrified. He'd made North cry and that woman was made of iron.

He’d been led to believe that Professor Anderson was old, grouchy, and had little patience for incompetence. Of course, the professor’s threshold for incompetence began with anyone who didn’t complete undergrad with honors.

To his absolute horror, Professor Anderson is not the gnarled, aging relic he anticipated. If Connor had to guess, he’d say he is early to mid-forties. He is also a mountain of a man—a hard, carved mountain with a voice like thunder. Connor knew Professor Anderson had worked as an officer before an injury forced him into early retirement and then teaching. Even so, the man had clearly kept in decent shape.

A soft layer swelled his middle, but his arms positively bulged under rolled sleeves. Fairly tall himself, Connor had to swallow a distinctly inappropriate sound when he realized he had to look _up_ to meet his professor's gaze at a close distance. He avoided repeat experiences as much for his own dignity as to remain under the radar.

He'd thought he'd managed to keep his disturbing and illicit crush to himself. Sure, he'd taken himself in hand to the memory of his professor's voice, to the idea of his hands on him, wrecking him. He wondered what it would feel like to be caged by those thick arms, but it’s not as if anybody knew. With his heinous schedule and freighting workload, there isn’t much time to gossip about crushes with his friends.

Unfortunately, fantasy has a way of bleeding into reality. Sitting front and center, the rest of the class can’t see how his needy brown eyes follow the professor as he lectures. His long, slender fingers clench into fists whenever Anderson directs his voice toward Connor and relief and disappointment battle on his face when the professor turns his attention away to focus on someone else.

It culminates when Connor, flustered and unfocused, stumbles through what should be a simple question about the basics of robotics. A hot flush stains his cheeks scarlet when someone titters from the back of the room and the professor arches an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

"See me after class," is his response to Connor's floundering and misery branches through his trembling chest in thorny thickets. He isn’t sure how he survives the remainder of the lecture, but he’s less than enthused when it ends. He doesn’t quite drag his feet on the way to his Professor's office, but a turtle could have given him a run for his money if they were racing.

His knock sounds weak as do the arguments in his head for why he'd blathered on like an idiot. He’s smart, Connor knows it, but he'd broken one of his own rules. He was daydreaming about his professor _during_ class and it was his own bad luck that Anderson had called on him.

The professor's voice booms "Enter" so loud that Connor wonders how the door is still on its hinges. Nerves licked along his skin like fire, realizing the best outcome would be his professor thought him a bit dim. He deflates slightly, hoping his ridiculous crush hasn’t tanked his future. Anderson is well known in the robotics community, and a condemnation from him could sink a burgeoning career.

Still, it was better than the alternative. Under absolutely no circumstances could he find out that Connor wanted him—

"Your attraction to me is becoming a distraction," his professor's voice slices through his frantic thoughts as if they are softer than whipped butter. If Connor had not already been moving to sit in the lone chair before his professor's desk, he would've fallen flat on his ass.

"You _know_?" His voice lilts embarrassingly high, but the situation is already mortifying. At least—he clings to this small comfort—he doesn’t have much more dignity to lose.

Try as he might, he still can't remember the exact details of how he'd wound up spread across his professor’s desk strewn with term papers and exams, screaming like a hellcat. Anderson's large hand had come down over his mouth, muffling the loudest of his shrieks.

His free hand engulfed Connor's straining erection, working him with something approaching brutality. It was overwhelming, it was wonderful, and Connor's orgasm was more complete and bone-shattering than anything he'd experienced with less skilled, gentler partners.

His professor had taken longer and Connor had all but sobbed in oversensitivity by the time Anderson's hips slowed following his own release.

His professor had made it clear that this was a one-time occurrence—that Connor should be able to focus now that he'd gotten his "absurd crush" out of his system. It was less than a week before Connor found himself bent over that desk once more, his professor working him open.

"There's a word for what you are, you know," he'd growled above him, crooking his large fingers to drag inside Connor, making him writhe and whimper with need. When Connor didn't answer, Anderson continued, "A brat."

A tremor of desire had quaked through Connor’s body when Anderson crooned, “A brat that needs to be kept in line.” Despite Connor’s enthusiastic response, Anderson was still surprised by his eagerness for his professor’s particular brand of discipline.

It was a curious thing how Anderson could pull so many different sounds from his chest, how much harder he got the more ruthless his professor became when denying him. The man never struck him or mistreated him, but he was more than adept at keeping him painfully on edge. The memory of the last time he’d been in this room sends a tendril of heat up his neck. Anderson had bent him in half on that desk and—

"Connor, don't slouch," his mother's voice drags him back into the present, back to staring at Anderson’s large desk with his invisible ass prints stamped all over it. His professor's blue eye twinkle with mirth.

"Yes, Connor. Posture is important." It takes a massive feat of will not to scowl at the man. He'd never be able to explain it to his mother.

He manages to survive the meeting. His professor tells Amanda all the things she wants to hear about Connor's bright future before seeing her to the door, "Thank you for coming by, Ms. Stern." She shakes his hand and grabs Connor by the elbow.

He shrugs from her grip in a _Really, mother?_ gesture, which she returns with pursed lips and unimpressed eyes.

"We'll be late for lunch with your brother," she reminds him for the thirteenth time that day as she shuts the door. Connor does his best to bite back a displeased sound.

Any meal with Niles is impossible these days. Connor understands discussing one's field of interest, but Niles' involved too many human organs for Connor's tastes, especially when trying to eat.

"Connor," his professor calls to him when they're no more than five steps down the hall. Both mother and son pause at the commanding tone, "I do need to speak with you regarding progress on your mid-term project. Sooner would be better than later."

A hushed argument and five minutes later, Connor slips into his professor's office, alone. "You wanted to discuss my project, which I submitted last week _sir_?" Connor's tone is less than polite and he's pushing his luck with his professor's patience. In fact, he's counting on it.

Anderson snorts in derision, "Of course not." Then he motions for Connor to come closer.

Standing at the blinds, Anderson roughly twists them closed with thick, capable fingers. Connor watches them, transfixed, wanting desperately to be the thing they manhandle next.

"Then what did you want to discuss?" Connor's close enough that he has to lean his head back to look his professor in the eyes. Something dark and sultry plays behind blue irises as a large hand snakes up Connor's back to fist in his hair, yanking him closer in one fluid motion.

"Your posture," Anderson growls against his lips and Connor's spine arches at the tone. His professor's mouth curves into a wicked smile at the irony. "And your attitude," he adds, breaking the kiss to suck at Connor's frenzied pulse.

They never mark each other, not yet, not with so much at stake. Connor may be a graduate student and an adult, but he's still a student. It's grey and murky and neither want to deal with the fallout should anyone discover what they're doing.

It doesn't stop Connor from practically licking his lips during lectures when his patience with waiting wears thin.

It doesn't stop Anderson from taking him apart with his fingers, his tongue, and his cock until Connor's a babbling mess that can't remember much more than his name.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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